Chapter 538: Night Watch at the Morgue

I’m a failure. Sunshine or rain, it barely registers anymore—I’m too busy chasing time.

My parents can’t support me, my education’s nothing special, and I’m alone in the city, searching for any scrap of a future.

I’ve hunted for job after job, but no one hires someone who can’t talk smoothly, hates small talk, and hasn’t shown much ability.

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I spent three whole days surviving on just two loaves of bread. Hunger kept me up every night. Lucky for me, I prepaid a month of rent, so I still had that dark basement to hole up in, safe from the brutal winter winds outside.

At last, I found a job—night shift at the hospital, keeping watch over the morgue.

The hospital at night was even colder than I’d imagined. The lights in the corridor were always off, leaving everything shrouded in gloom, with only a bit of light leaking from some of the rooms so I could see my feet.

The smell there was awful. Every now and then someone would bring in another corpse stuffed in a body bag, and we’d help carry it into the morgue.

It was hardly a good job, but at least it let me buy bread. And the empty nights gave me time to study—nobody came near the morgue unless they were dropping off or picking up a body for cremation. Of course, I still couldn’t afford books, and saving up seemed hopeless.

I owed that job to my predecessor. If he hadn’t suddenly quit, I wouldn’t have landed it at all.

I dreamed of rotating to a daytime shift. For now, though, I always slept when the sun was up and woke once night fell. It was making me weak inside, and sometimes my head throbbed painfully.

One day, the workers brought in another corpse.

Someone told me it was my predecessor—the one who’d quit so suddenly.

I got curious. When everyone else had left, I pulled the drawer open and quietly unzipped the body bag.

He was an old man, his skin tinged blue and white, wrinkled all over. The dim light made him look downright frightening.

He hardly had any hair left, most of it was white. They’d stripped him completely—didn’t leave him with so much as a scrap of cloth.

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I noticed a strange mark on his chest—dark greenish-black, but I couldn’t quite make out the shape. The light was just too dim.

I reached out and touched that mark. Nothing happened. Nothing special at all.

Looking down at my old coworker, I couldn’t help but wonder… If I keep living like this, will I end up like him?

I told him, tomorrow I’d take him to the crematorium myself and see to it his ashes went to the nearest free cemetery—so the workers wouldn’t just toss him in a random river or dump him in a field out of laziness.

I’d lose a morning’s sleep for it, but that’s fine. Sunday was coming—I could catch up.

After I said that, I zipped up the bag and put him back in his drawer.

It felt like the room was even darker after that…

Ever since that night, every time I fell asleep, I dreamed of endless fog.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was coming—maybe not something you’d even call ‘human.’ No one believed me, of course. They figured working those hours in a place like that was messing with my head, that I ought to see a doctor…

A man sitting at the bar glanced at the storyteller who had suddenly fallen silent.

“And then?”

The man looked to be in his thirties. He wore a brown coarse-wool coat and light yellow trousers, his hair pressed flat. By his hand was a simple, dark bowler hat.

He was plain as anyone, just one of the dozens of black-haired, blue-eyed men in the bar—not ugly, not handsome, nothing special.

The storyteller, though, was a tall, slender youth about eighteen or nineteen, also with short black hair and blue eyes, but with bold features that gave him an unforgettable look.

He stared into his empty glass, let out a sigh, and said:

“And then?”

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“Then I quit, went back to the countryside, and now here I am, spinning yarns with you.”

As he spoke, a sly smile crept onto his face—mischief in his eyes.

The man at the bar blinked.

“Wait—you were making that up?”

Laughter erupted around the bar.

Once it settled down, a lanky middle-aged man gave the embarrassed outsider a look and said:

“Stranger, you actually bought one of Lumian’s stories? He tells a new one every day! Yesterday, he was a guy whose fiancée left him because he was poor, and today, he’s spent years watching dead bodies!”

“Yeah, and he’s always going on about thirty years on this bank of the Serrence River, thirty years on the other! A load of nonsense!” another regular chimed in.

They were all Cordu’s farmers, decked out in black, gray, or brown short jackets.

The black-haired youth—Lumian—propped himself up on the bar and grinned as he rose to his feet.

“You know the stories aren’t mine. They’re my sister’s—she loves to write. She does columns for something called ‘Weekly Novel Magazine.'”

Then he turned to the outsider, spreading his hands with a brilliant smile.

“Guess that means she’s a pretty good writer.”

“Sorry for tricking you.”

The plain-looking man in the coarse-wool coat didn’t take offense. He stood up as well and smiled.

“It was an entertaining story.”

“What should I call you?”

“Isn’t it common courtesy to introduce yourself first before asking someone else’s name?” Lumian replied with a smile.

The outsider nodded.

“I’m Ryan Coste.

These are my companions, Valentine and Leah.”

He gestured at the man and woman sitting beside him.

The man looked to be twenty-seven or twenty-eight, blond hair dusted with powder, his eyes even deeper blue than the lake, dressed in a white vest, tailored blue coat, and black trousers—a sharp dresser, that much was clear.

His expression was cold and distant, barely glancing at the local farmers and shepherds.

The woman looked younger than her two companions, her long light-gray hair twisted into an elaborate chignon, wrapped in a white veil serving as a hat.

Her eyes matched her hair—light gray—and she was smiling with open amusement at all that had just transpired.

By the glow of the gaslights, the woman—Leah—showed a pert nose and graceful lips. By Cordu’s rural standards, she was a rare beauty.

She wore a white, pleatless cashmere dress, a cream jacket, and tall Massir boots. Both her veil and boots had little silver bells attached, jingling as she entered and drawing every man’s attention.

To them, that sort of high fashion belonged in Bigo, the provincial capital, or Trier, the country’s heart—not in a tiny place like this.

Lumian gave the three outsiders a nod.

“I’m Lumian Lee. Just call me Lumian.”

“Lee?” Leah blurted out.

“What’s wrong? Is there something strange about my surname?” Lumian asked curiously.

Ryan Coste replied on Leah’s behalf.

“That name is enough to give people chills. I nearly lost my composure just now.”

When the farmers and shepherds looked puzzled, he explained further.

“Anyone who’s ever dealt with sailors or sea traders knows this old saying from the Five Seas:

‘Better to face the pirate generals or even the Pirate King himself than cross paths with a Frank Lee.’

“His surname is Lee too.”

“Is he really that scary?” Lumian asked.

Ryan shook his head.

“I don’t know for sure. But if there’s a legend like that, it can’t be for nothing.”

He dropped the topic, and turned to Lumian.

“Thanks for the story. It’s worth a drink. What will you have?”

“Absinthe,” Lumian said, without a second thought, sitting right back down.

Ryan Coste frowned slightly.

“Absinthe? You know that’s supposed to be dangerous, right? That stuff can mess with your mind—people see things, go a bit mad.”

Leah smiled, joining in, “I never thought Trier’s fads would make it all the way out here.”

Lumian gave an “Oh”:

“So people in Trier drink Absinthe, too… Around here, life’s tough enough as is. Nobody cares about a drink that’s a little bad for you. At least it helps us relax.”

“Fair enough.” Ryan turned to the bartender. “One Absinthe for him, and I’ll take a Fiery Heart.”

“Fiery Heart” was a famous fruit spirit.

“Hey, why not order me an Absinthe too? I was the one who outed this rascal, and I could spill every last detail about him! Stranger, you must still be doubting if his story’s real!” the lanky middle-aged man, Pierre, called out.

“Pierre, for a free drink, there’s nothing you won’t do!” Lumian shot back, raising his voice.

Before Ryan could decide, Lumian piped in again:

“Why can’t I tell the story myself? Then I could have another Absinthe to boot!”

“Because no one knows whether or not to believe you,” Pierre gloated. “Your sister’s favorite bedtime story for kids is ‘The Boy Who Cried Wolf.’ Anyone who lies all the time loses trust.”

“Fine.” Lumian shrugged, watching as the bartender slid a glass of pale green liquor his way.

Ryan looked to him and checked:

“Is that all right with you?”

“No problem, so long as you’re paying.” Lumian didn’t care at all.

“Then another Absinthe, please,” Ryan nodded.

Pierre grinned from ear to ear.

“Generous stranger! This kid’s got a reputation as the village’s biggest prankster. You should keep your distance. Five years ago, his sister Aurore brought him back to the village, and he’s never left since. He was only thirteen then—how could he have worked in a hospital morgue? The closest hospital is down the mountain in Daliege—a half-day’s walk!”

“Brought back?” Leah pressed, keen as ever.

She tilted her head, bells jingling.

Pierre nodded.

“After that, he took Aurore’s surname—Lee. She even gave him his first name, Lumian.”

“Can’t even remember what I used to be called,” Lumian said with a cheeky smile, sipping his Absinthe.

He didn’t seem even a little embarrassed about having his whole past laid bare.